


I Know I'll See Your Face Again

by lightbringer (orphan_account)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M, at some point, don't worry because if a chapter has certain things i'll put it in the top notes okay, hopefully there's more cute than pain, like i don't know where i'm going with this yet rOLL WITH IT, marco being a floury baker man, possibly... mentions of suicide, there will be other characters, um also warnings for later are like, violence??? maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:31:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lightbringer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco runs a support group that usually caters to the older, more roughened members of the less fortunate side of society. But then a messy haired adolescent stumbles into Marco's life and pretty much twists it into a pretzel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [sings] it's the start of something new-- [coughs awkwardly] okay so i don't know what's happening with this but i haven't written properly in a long time and attack on titan just kicked me in the writer's BUTT. like i've literally caught something. anyhow... yes. i know it's short but i'm easing back in... i'm aiming for longer chapters each time. i haven't beta'd properly so feel free to point out issues! <3

Marco Bodt was legitimately an angel from above. At least, that's what everybody at the local 'Say No' community group that he'd organized thought, and it was near enough true; every day at 6pm sharp he would arrive, dressed in a modest ensemble of t-shirt and faded jeans - so as to not make the other, usually less better off people attending feel inferior, considerate as he was - whilst still looking approachable and glorious, like some kind of benevolent deity. He would take his seat amongst the familiar faces and the newbies, handing out cinnamon buns and lemon slices he'd stolen ("for a good cause!" He would insist, sheepish and blushing) from the bakery where he worked in the week. He'd listen to their thoughts, feelings and their explosive cursing of the world before taking the stand and just _talking_. Many of the visitors, if you asked them afterwards, probably wouldn't know what words had just came out of Marco's mouth. But there was something about him that captivated them - they liked to listen to somebody non-judgemental and kind talk to them about menial things like dropping a _whole_ plate of eggs on the kitchen floor or witnessing a small ginger cat claw its way up the bark of a tree and get stuck there, yowling pitifully. He had of course, in this particular case, climbed the tree to bring the furry creature back onto the relative safety of the ground.

His volunteering at the community group wasn't for any kind of academic gain, nor a type of selfish satisfaction of having others depend on him. It was simply that Marco was kind, sympathetic and wanted to help others as much as he could in the time that'd been allotted to him; he had no ulterior motive except the desperate ideal for a better world. That was just the type of person that Marco was. Eventually, he wanted to become a doctor and more directly save the lives of others. But saving up for college was difficult, and he figured that if he had free time while he was working to build a fund for it, he may as well pay back to the community. Albeit in a different kind of currency.

Caring as he was, Marco couldn't help but become attached to some of the more regular faces in the flock of people constantly coming and going. Foremostly there was Hannes, a middle-aged alcoholic who, after losing his wife, had been made homeless. The closest he'd had to a home for the past three years was a stall left over from when the fair had come to town a few months ago, but he still turned up to each meeting with a smile on his face and a grateful wink when Marco handed out the various confectionary. The others he had been familiar with, sadly, had either moved out of town in search of a better life or passed away. Some were old, but most were overcome by their addictions, the rough lives they lived becoming too much for even the help of the support group to withstand. It always hit Marco like a sledgehammer when a name he knew was pinned to The Noticeboard - dubbed such for it's simplicity - that hung underneath the cross in a far corner of the centre. It filled his head with missed opportunities; what if they'd had a roof over their head? What if they'd had just one warm night, or one close friend to confide in?

He did his best, of course, pushing the Inner to fund residence or food stations for the poor and homeless, but it was no use. The current economic crisis in Trost gave the perfect excuse to the governing authorities that they couldn't afford extra expenses. So Marco did his best by giving the less fortunate a place to come five days a week, to socialize, to give and receive comfort away from the harsh and judgemental eyes of society that watched them like a hawk in the streets. It was relatively repetitive, in a calming sort of way; Marco liked the routine, liked the aged, weathered visitors who wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest amongst friends. That is, until something new, unexpected and young came slouching through the door one day, hands stuffed into worn pockets and haphazard hair splaying messily over a shaven undercut. Marco met his eyes and the stranger seemed to fold in on himself even more, shoulders hunched even as his voice rang out with a cocky sort of neutrality.

"This is some kind of homeless get-together, right?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [blinks wearily] okay so it's 3.30am and this is wOW it's so shitty okay i'm sorry but this writing thing is hard after like a year of not writing anything!!! no warnings for anything this chapter ok <3

Looking the boy - well, man, as he seems to be around Marco's age - up and down with a subtlety he knows he won't catch, Marco lifts a chair from the stack nearby, smiling patiently even as he hears some of the others grumbling to themselves about the man's brash attitude. He sets the chair down carefully in one of the circle's gaps and gestures to it. "I suppose you could call it that, but... We like to think of it as a group that can be used for supp-" "Yeah, yeah," The man cuts him off, waving a hand dismissively and moving over to sit in the chair. His feet drag, and Marco would bet all of his current savings that he doesn't want to be here; but the weather outside is unforgiving, bitingly cold wind howling against the window panes and rain being sure to follow soon enough. "What's your name?" Marco asks brightly, determined to include the newcomer as much as he can, try to warm him up to the general tone of the meetings. He sees the hesitation, like he might refuse to give his name or perhaps is trying to think of a fake one. Then the stranger seems to make up his mind and, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone else in the room, he mutters, "Jean. My name's Jean."

It doesn't surprise Marco that he doesn't give a surname; he's not even sure that it's the man's real first name, but he still gives the rest of the circle an expectant look. Together they reply, "Hello, Jean." It's a little cheesy and stereotypical for a support group, but Marco likes the inclusivity of it. Jean looks a little torn about the attention, like he's surprised he's welcome and also like he wants to maintain his offhand exterior, but the set of his shoulders relaxes slightly and by the end of the meeting he's even sharing a joke with Hannes. Some nonsense about 'pulling women' that makes Marco want to blush, even though he doesn't know why, and he feels a small, victorious warmth in his stomach, like he's won something special.

The meetings never seem to last long. At least, not for Marco, as he's either listening to heartfelt stories or making warm drinks or giving speeches about his own little memoirs, and as the day's visitors filter out of the hall, back into the frigid air of late November, Jean is left on his own, lingering by the door. He's figeting, gazing out into the street before the door swings closed, left fist clenching and unclenching like he's got some sort of nervous compulsion. Marco pauses in his regular task of stacking chairs and tossing paper cups and empty sugar sachets into the trashcan, wanting to ask but knowing that he shouldn't. It's been his experience that when people in a support group want to share, they'll do so willingly.

"Jean?" He asks softly, and the blond tears his eyes and thoughts out of the distance, turning warily. "What?" He asks, and Marco is slightly disheartened that his voice seems to have grown slightly colder, regressing with the loss of the small group he'd been socializing with. It made Marco wonder how long it'd been since he'd been around people who cared about him. "It's just..." Marco gestures to the empty hall. "Everybody's left. Did you want anything in particular?" He hopes that ' _a good listener?_ ' is implied. Whilst everybody else had been telling their story or recounting recent events to do with their addictions, or their living states, or their families - for those who had any - Jean had sat silent and brooding. When it had come to his turn, he'd shaken his head with a sort of embarrassed smile. "Pass," He'd muttered casually, but behind the sheepishness Marco could see that there had been real defensiveness. But the group was used to 'clams' - as one of the other older veterans, Mags, had named them - and the rest of the conversations had continued smoothly without any pressure on Jean to share.

Jean stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head almost violently. "No, uh. No. I don't need anything." He lifted his hand to the door handle, movements weary. Before he could stop himself, Marco blurted out his name. When the other man looked back, he smiled hopefully. "Will we see you again, Jean?" Jean pressed his lips together, and it looked like his expression was just on the edge of a rueful smile. Then his fingers twitched and he itched the inside of his left forearm, his brows dropping and his features twisting into something close to hatred. Marco knew that logically it couldn't be directed towards him, but that left only one other option that made his heart ache a little. "I gotta go." And then Jean was gone, wind slamming the door behind him in a flash of pathetic fallacy. Marco knew, he knew that he probably shouldn't wish to be involved with a troubled attendee of his support group, but there was something about Jean. Something... Interesting. Something bright, buried under the hoodie with the ragged sleeve hems and the unkempt hair. He knew he wouldn't be able to forget the teenager any time soon, whether he kept coming to the support group or not... And he also knew that he didn't want to.

 

* * *

 

Jean preoccupied Marco's thoughts. And he didn't preoccupy them in the _I hope Jean's having a nice day_ way, either, but in the _I wonder where Jean is?_  way and the  _I wonder what Jean's doing?_  way and the _writing 'Jean' on one of the cupcakes he was making instead of 'Joy'_ way. The overly cheerful word choice was the idea of Krista, the tiny blonde girl who worked alongside Marco in the bakery under the watchful eye of their kind-hearted manager, Carla Jaeger. However, it does give Marco an idea, and he spends the rest of the day sneaking away at quiet moments to decorate cupcakes and muffins he 'borrows' with the names of the people who regularly attend his support group meetings. When Carla flips the sign from open to closed, he has a bakery box full of them and is feeling pleased with himself. He feels guilty about being so excited for tonight's session, because he knows it isn't entirely selfless. Of course he always feels good about giving the unfortunate and the lonely a place to come and meet up with their friends in the warmth, but he knows that it's because of a certain indivudal that he actually looks forward to the meetings even when bone-tired from a day's work.

He knows Carla sees the flat white and yellow box when he leaves, but she doesn't chastise him for it, just ushers him out so she can lock up and he can 'go and do his good deed for the day'. He staggers onto his bike, placing the box in the basket up front, and pedals his way to the community centre before the meeting starts. To his surprise, Hannes and Mags were already waiting there, huddled and leaning against the locked doors. Marco jumped off his bike, locking it to one of the posts outside of the centre before rushing to unlock the doors so they can all go inside. He flicks the lights on and lays the cupcakes out of the table in the centre of the room, opening the box and beckoning Hannes and Mags over so that they can see the two cupcakes that are clearly labelled with their names in baby blue icing. He grins as they thank him, smile getting more and more sheepish with each mumbled 'it's okay, really' and 'I just wanted to do something for the group'.

The rest of the regulars arrive soon after, a couple of new faces likely brought in by the rapidly decreasing temperature outside. Marco supplies them with nameless cupcakes he'd brought with him, just in case. At almost 6pm, Marco casts a glance at the single cupcake left. He was wondering if Jean would show up, and while he was disappointed he was also accepting. It was probably good enough that he hadn't, anyway, he tried to assure himself. The accidental writing of Jean's name had been in pink, Krista's selected icing colour, and it would've been embarrassing to have to- "Hi." Marco glanced up and his train of though danced away. "Sorry I'm late, I stayed late at the office." Jean deadpans, and when he walks into the light Marco sees the skin under his eyes has darkened, just slightly. Shrugging it off, because it's not his business, not really, he presents Jean with the cupcake, icing slightly melted. "Sorry it's... Pink," Marco says awkwardly, flushing slightly because the red in his cheeks is on a constant hair trigger. Jean takes it, only slightly less awkwardly, but he still thanks him, and Marco still feels ridiculously good about himself.

The session is mostly taken up by the newcomers telling their stories from start to finish, but Marco doesn't mind. He's normally enraptured by the trust these people have in total strangers in the circle, in _him,_ blown away by the fact they have nothing left and determined that he and his support group can be the one thing they can count on. His eyes occasionally flick over to Jean, who sits, listening, just as focused on each individual as they speak their history, thoughts, feelings. Sometimes he looks almost pained. Sometimes he looks relieved. Sometimes he looks guilty. Marco watches Jean because he's never seen that much emotion in his face before. When they're done, Jean's face slacks back to its perpetual apathetic expression. When everyone has finished sharing, the whole group looks fairly emotionally exhausted, and there isn't much energy in them as they leave, though the smiles and goodbyes are still warm and grateful.

This time, when Marco glances up at the door, Jean isn't stood there waiting for something unknown. Instead, he's inches away when Marco turns around from emptying crumbs and coffee cups into the trashcan. He almost yelps, but it comes out in a quiet gasp instead. "Jean," He says a little breathlessly. "You startled me!" Jean smirks as if that's something to be proud of and Marco tries not to find it endearing. Jean squints up at him through the inch height difference. Marco squirms under the scrunity and tries to work out what it is that Jean can see. But then again, he's pretty sure he knows. Marco's always been bad at hiding things. "You know, if I was a good, responsible attendee, I wouldn't touch this shit with a ten foot barge pole." He says, and Marco can't move away without forcibly removing Jean from his path, so he just balks and stays where he is.

With Jean's hard gaze boring into his own eyes, the wall between what he thinks and what he speaks crumbles, and the next sound he hears is his own voice, reaching out into the space between them with a question. "And are you? A- a good, responsible attendee?" Jean doesn't answer straight away, just takes Marco's arm at the elbow and walks him back a step. His shoulders press against the wall and he bites back a noise he's sure he would have regretted immediately after he let it out. There's a few moments of silence and Marco wonders if Jean even remembers that he asked a question, amber eyes sharp and not giving one clue as to what he's thinking. That is, until they flare up with decisiveness and he shakes his head. "Fuck, no." He finally answers and moves forward, his mouth covering any response that Marco could've given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you guys

**Author's Note:**

> title quite obviously from 'drugs don't work' by the verve. I KNOW it's so obvious a title that i'm not even trying for deep meaning, ok, but it's pretty damn relevant doN'T JUDGE ME  
> love 2 ma beta becky <3


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